Play Dead (26 page)

“T
HIS
,
AS
I told you in my opening statement, is a very easy case.”

That is how Hawpe starts his talk to the jury, who are paying rapt attention. I only wish they had been in Eastside Park with me until three in the morning; then they would be as groggy and unfocused as I am.

I spent the hours after the explosion playing a balancing act with Pete Stanton and his detectives. I gave them Hamadi’s identity and told them that he was coming to give me information about a case, but I revealed little else. Not knowing whether there are any federal law enforcement agencies I can trust with this, I decide to hold back for now.

I did take the opportunity to tell Pete Stanton about the money smuggling at the port, and Chaney’s involvement in it. He’ll go to the feds, and they’ll start an investigation. Hopefully Chaney will go down, but Petrone will emerge unscathed, having been alerted by me as part of our deal. I’m not thrilled by my role in this, but it’s the best I could do.

“And that is exactly what it has proven to be,” Hawpe continues. “Richard Evans went out on a boat one night with his fiancée, and he killed her and threw her body overboard. He then tried to kill himself, an effort that was thwarted only by the Coast Guard.

“Witnesses have placed them alone on the boat together, and there has been no evidence to the contrary. The defense has suggested everything from murderous stowaways to marauding pirates but has offered not the slightest facts to back up their theories.

“We don’t know why this crime was committed. Ms. Harriman told her neighbor that she and Richard Evans were having problems in their relationship, and she feared his temper. So perhaps he just flipped out in a momentary rage, then tried to kill himself when he realized what he had done.

“Or maybe he was depressed, and planned an evening that would provide a bizarre form of escape. Or it’s possible that she told him she was leaving the relationship, and he couldn’t handle the rejection.

“I can’t stand here and tell you the answer, but I can tell you that it doesn’t matter. We do not allow cold-blooded murder, no matter what the motivation.

“Now, the defense has raised the possibility—I would even say the probability—that Stacy Harriman lied about her true identity. And I cannot tell you why she did that. But none of the possible reasons—and they are many—could possibly justify her murder.”

Hawpe walks over to the jury and stands maybe three feet from them. “If one of you took a gun out right now and shot me, thinking my name was Daniel Hawpe, you would be arrested. If later you found out that my real name was Bill Smith, or Carl Jones, it wouldn’t matter. You would be just as guilty.

“On behalf of the State of New Jersey, I want you to listen to the judge’s instructions, follow your common sense, and vote your conscience. If you do that, Richard Evans will never be in a position to murder again.”

As soon as Hawpe sits down, I am gripped by exactly the sense of fear and anxiety and dread that I face every single time I give a closing statement. This is my last chance; once I sit back down I will never have another opportunity to influence this jury.

It’s like a baseball pitcher who throws a three-and-two pitch with the bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. The pitcher is in control until the moment the ball leaves his hand, and then he has no control over his fate whatsoever.

Once I finish this statement, I’m a bystander.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have been involved in a lot of trials, more than I sometimes care to remember, and I have seen many different prosecutorial approaches. A good prosecutor adjusts his case and his style to the facts he has to present, to the strength of his case.

“Mr. Hawpe is a very good prosecutor, and it is obvious that he carefully assessed his evidence before coming up with the tactic that best fit this trial. What he wound up with is the ‘well, maybe, but’ approach.

“You heard it throughout. When we proved that Reggie was alive, his response was basically, ‘Well, maybe he is alive, but…’

“When it was shown that Richard did not take Amenipam in pill form, Mr. Hawpe backed off with ‘Well, maybe he didn’t, but…’

“When it was demonstrated that Mr. Evans could not have sustained his injury in the way it was presented, Mr. Hawpe allowed that ‘Well, maybe he didn’t, but…’

“And when it was proven beyond doubt that the very identity of the murder victim was a lie and a mystery, he conceded, ‘Well, maybe it was faked, but…’

“Before a prosecutor asks you to send someone to a life in prison, he has to be certain of his facts. He should not be constantly amending them when they prove wrong. He cannot be allowed to tap dance his way to a murder conviction. Richard Evans deserves better than that.

“Stacy Harriman’s entire life was a lie, a complete fabrication, even to her own future husband. This is not something that she would have done casually. How many people do you know that have done it? She was a young, beautiful woman so afraid of where she had been that she couldn’t get herself to reveal it to the man she loved.

“She lived alone with her fear, her secret, until it killed her.

“Richard Evans has never done anything criminal—not on the boat that night, not in his life. Before this nightmare he was a dedicated public servant, a caring friend, a loving brother.

“He can be all that again, if you will let him. Thank you.”

I turn around and walk back to the defense table. I see Karen in the front row, sobbing, and Richard grabs my arm as I reach him.

“Thank you,” he says. “No matter how this turns out, thank you.”

I
T SEEMS THAT
you can never get a good coma going when you need one.

My strong preference would be to remain in an unconscious state while a jury is deliberating. In fact, I’d like to be wheeled into the courtroom that way and not woken up until the very moment that the clerk is starting to read the verdict.

That way I would be able to avoid the anxiety, the doubt, and the second-guessing that I inflict on myself. I wouldn’t have to go through my ridiculous preverdict superstitions, and my friends wouldn’t have to deal with me at my most obnoxious.

This is not a fun time.

Making matters worse is Karen Evans’s understandable desire to hang out with me while we wait. She knows I’ll hear things first, so this is where she wants to be. This gives me the unwanted burden of having to be reasonably pleasant at a time when I am always impossibly cranky.

Karen also assumes I know more about this process than she does, but she’s wrong about that. I have no idea what is going on in that jury room, or what decision they might reach. The entire thing is impossible to predict and, more significantly, completely out of my control. That is what makes it so maddening.

Kevin and I have tried, with little success, to divert ourselves with our investigation of Stacy’s background, though it is too late for anything that could come of it to help in this trial. The reason it hasn’t been that diverting is because we no longer know what the hell to investigate. By now Stacy, Durelle, Franklin, and Hamadi are all dead, which leaves us with precious few suspects.

In fact, the only suspects left from the dwindling pool are Anthony Banks; Mike Carelli, the Special Services chopper pilot; and Captain Gary Winston, the surgeon who went down with the others. We have never been able to locate any of them, and we certainly don’t seem to be ready to start now.

Banks and Carelli are the most likely candidates for bad guy, since Hamadi’s car was shown to have been blown up by a grenade launcher. Since surgeons are not usually trained in grenade launching, Dr. Winston is probably off the hook.

Sam Willis had a brainstorm yesterday to go to Hamadi’s funeral and surreptitiously take pictures of all in attendance. Since Kevin and I had seen photographs of Banks, Carelli, and Winston in their army files, he thinks maybe we’d see one of them at the funeral.

The suggestion made very little sense to me, since if these guys are actually alive and in hiding all these years, the idea they would come out to attend the funeral of a man they killed doesn’t add up. But Sam wanted to do it, probably so he could get to use a tricky hidden camera gizmo he recently bought, so I let him.

Sam has gone through all the pictures and printed them out off his computer. Digital cameras are amazing; I just wish I didn’t find them so bewildering. When I want to take pictures, I buy one of those disposable cameras, take the shots, and then leave them undeveloped in the camera for years.

I call Sam and tell him he should bring the pictures over now. Karen and Kevin are both here, and I figure it will be good for Karen to think we’re doing something proactive, even though we’re not.

Sam brings in his computer and shows the pictures to us in something called PowerPoint on the wall. It’s as if he were making a presentation to a board meeting. But he’s enjoying the literal spotlight, so I pretend to be paying attention.

There are more than seventy-five pictures, documenting in excruciating detail the perhaps hundred and fifty attendees at the funeral. Most of the photos have five or more people in them, so obviously, many people are seen much more than once.

By the thirtieth picture, I haven’t seen anyone that looks remotely familiar, and I’m so bored I would rather be at the ballet. Kevin’s face tells me he’s as miserable as I am, but I don’t speed Sam up, because Karen is so into this. She keeps saying things like “Wait… hold on… that person looks like… can we focus in on him…?” but ultimately she doesn’t recognize anyone, either.

Just as Sam is gathering up his material to leave, the phone rings. A ringing phone while waiting for a verdict is equivalent to a drumroll and ominous music at any other time. Everybody stares at it for a moment, but I’m the only one with the courage to answer it.

“Mr. Carpenter?”

“Yes?”

“This is Ms. Battaglia, the court clerk. The jury has informed us that they have a verdict. Judge Gordon has convened a court session to hear it at three o’clock.”

I hang up the phone and turn to Kevin and Karen. “We have a verdict.”

“Finally!” Karen says, with obvious relief.

That one word completely sums up the difference between me and that strange group of people called “optimists.” Karen is glad that there’s a verdict; she sees a positive result as now a few hours away. I have no idea what the result is, but the fact that there is one is enough to make me physically ill.

Kevin is in another class altogether; he’s always physically ill.

We hit a lot of traffic and don’t get to the court until a quarter of three. The media is out in force to see the result of what has become a very public legal battle.

The public is kept behind police barricades, and as nervous as I am, I still reflect on what could possibly bring someone here to stand in the street. It’s not as if they’ll get special insight into the case; they’d be able to hear the verdict just as quickly on television. And they’re clearly not here out of an intellectual interest in the workings of the justice system; the most intelligent question I hear is, “Hey, Andy! You gonna win?”

We’re in our seats at five to three, and Richard is brought in moments later. Daniel Hawpe looks over at me, smiles, and mouths, “Good luck.” He has the calm manner of a lawyer who doesn’t have a client with his life on the line.

Richard seems under control, though I can’t imagine the stress he must be feeling. He just looks at me and offers a weak smile. “One way or the other,” he says.

I nod. “One way or the other.”

Karen gets out of her seat in the front row and hugs Richard from behind. She’s not supposed to do that, but the guards who would ordinarily prevent her understand that these are extraordinary circumstances.

Kevin looks pained and miserable. I have seen him in stressful situations like this, and they tend to increase his hypochondria fivefold. Right now I’m afraid he’s going to have urology issues under the defense table.

Judge Gordon takes his seat at the bench and asks that the jury be brought in. It takes either ten seconds or ten minutes for them to do so; time doesn’t seem to have structure or meaning at moments like this.

For some reason it always bothers me to know that the jury’s decision has already been made, even though we’re first finding out about it now. It’s like watching a football game on tape and not knowing the final score; it doesn’t help to root, because the boat has already sailed.

This verdict has already sailed.

Judge Gordon asks the foreman if a verdict has in fact been reached, and he confirms that it has. He hands the verdict slip to the clerk, who hands it to Gordon.

Gordon reads it, and his face remains as unrevealing as those of the jury members. He hands it back to the clerk and asks Richard to stand. Richard, Kevin, and I all do so, and out of the corner of my eye I see Karen rise in her seat, a gesture of total solidarity. If I’m ever in a foxhole, I want her with me.

I put my arm on Richard’s right shoulder, as much to support myself as him. He grabs my arm and holds it, and we brace ourselves. Here it comes…

The clerk starts to read at the pace of what feels like one word every three hours. “In the matter of the
State of New Jersey versus Richard Evans,
we the jury find the defendant, Richard Evans… guilty of murder in the first degree.”

Richard lowers his head for about fifteen seconds, then turns to Kevin and me and says, “We gave it our best shot.” The courtroom is deathly quiet, and I can clearly hear Karen behind me, sobbing.

I put my arm on Richard’s shoulder and lean down toward him. “It’s not over,” I whisper. “I swear to you, it’s not over.” He doesn’t answer, probably because he doesn’t believe me. And there’s no reason he should.

I’m sure Richard feels worse than I do, but right now it seems impossible that anyone could. My client was innocent, and I couldn’t get a jury to believe me. Hawpe got twelve people to vote on his side, even though his side was wrong.

Judge Gordon thanks the jury for their service and schedules sentencing for three weeks from now. The gavel pounds again, bringing the proceedings to a close. The jury files out, and the guards lead Richard away.

If there’s a moment in my life that I’ve hated more than this one, I don’t remember it. Maybe when my father died.

Maybe not.